Biography of Jack Worthington
I'm an American from the west coast. I live in Bodega, California. I lived on the east coast for a few years. It was too different for me to stay. The people, the weather, were all so different. People say you have to follow your career wherever it goes. That may work for some, but for me place is even more important than what we do, because we can 'do' anywhere. Place can be its own purpose, and my place is the west coast.
I have not had any more hardships in my life than anyone else, maybe a few less. I'm not a damaged person tying to work things out, although I do come from a damaged age group. I think history will say of my generation that we were raised like hothouse flowers, and one day the doors of the hothouse were flung open, exposing us to an uncomfortable world that we were never prepared for.
In my opinion, humanity goes through long term cycles, nations are born and die like people. They are born through sacrifice, and die through avarice. The era in which we currently live is one of avarice. Nothing ages well. Everything is created to be ground down. The only thing we can do is attempt to preserve our own dignity.
I started writing poems as an escape. I continue to write for that reason, however, on occasion, I'm awestruck by something I've seen, so escape is slowly turning into inspiration. I hope you find my poems as satisfying a read as they were to write.
Everyone tells us to believe in ourselves. Self respect is important, but what about believing in each other?
Jack Worthington Poems
Feeling down, I look around at the world passing before me The sun on its fatalistic arc, streams light through aluminum blinds A fading afternoon, where nothing was done but wasting time I slip on my shoes and sunglasses, and then grab my keys.
Tell Me What's Real
Tell me what's real, I need to know For what purpose I don't know, perhaps to grow, but who knows I remember that town, an arid place, where only people grow That valley, where the sun in all its glory shows, so acidic on the soul
The Joshua Tree
Standing tall on the arid desert floor An ancient young man throws his arms to heaven He cannot shout our names but knows us through our brethren Standing there, year by year, a man of native lore.
Throughout the ages past and yet to come In an ocean of pride and cynicism Hearts filled with truth are never undone Just as light comes through a prism.
One late afternoon I walked by a church The saints long buried and returned to the earth Their peace, now broken, posterity's token, has given birth A baloon entangled itself in a birch.
Paul The Bureaucrat
He stood on a railway platform to the city Squinting through his glasses waiting for the train His wife at home, an unwatered plant no longer pretty At 9am he arrives at work in the rain.
As I escape from a latin flavor I merge to the left to avoid the truck lanes Over the hill a new life to savor Away from the smog and lame.
A nation's heart can be understood When darkness falls and spirits fade Lost and lonely dreamers return to the woods While what remains, walk the path of war that evil made.
It was an age of innocence A fleeting moment in time When hearts felt so sublime Soon our hearts would be jaded, hardened by circumstance.
An Enforcer's Drive To Lancaster
The officer gently set his files on the passenger seat Then drove an hour north, for his encounter with a cheat The canyon road, winding and narrow, imprisoned him in iron chains He'd heard the lies all before and dealt with many pains.
He Enters A Train Station On Saturday Mo...
On a cool, cloudy, Saturday morning he entered the station, an hour before his departure Walls that smelled of time and bleachers made of pine witness to ages passed Of soldiers leaving, lovers returning, and friends who fade into the fog like a mast The station sits cold and idle, like a church whose congregation had long ago been raptured.
Smoke Stack In January
I opened the door, bracing against the cold My hat and gloves and coat shelterd me from an icy arctic wind I reached to close the door behind and cast the salt around to find a path to which my feet my bind As I carefully tread the steps, I gazed up to a sight that was something to behold.
The Motel Room
Resting on a two lane highway, not a destination, but a way station for weary travelers Some adventurers, some dreamers, most just seeking comfort from the night They've come to rest, as tomorrows test, will be grueling pure delight There this room, greets its guests who reek of cigarettes and hamburgers.
A Bonfire At San Simeon
Down the hill and after sunset, on the beach I sit in sand On my back the vacuum of space, its cold hands embrace me in its victory over warmth The drumbeat of the tide, and all of evil's pride spread loneliness upon the earth But on this beach, God's mercy from above, instructed light to warm my hands.
One late afternoon I walked by a church
The saints long buried and returned to the earth
Their peace, now broken, posterity's token, has given birth
A baloon entangled itself in a birch.
I could not bear to look away
Yet the past could not bare false witness
As I watched that iron gate sway, guarding nothing but time delayed
The fast no longer held, the progeny exuding weakness.